


Summers

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Ficlet, Harems, M/M, Sex Work, Trans Male Character, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-16
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-09-24 23:30:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9791906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Many of Gil-galad’s soldiers come for relief and pleasure, but Lindir waits only for one.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This is set much earlier than usual, in the days of the Last Alliance, for a twist of young!Elrond. (Either Lindir is younger still, or Elrond’s later older appearance is explained by his mortal blood.) Named for what I was listening to; [Marina and the Diamonds – Froot (Amestan remix)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4fEJpvPz6GM).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or The Lord of the Rings or The Silmarillion or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He doesn’t quite _belong_ here, and he knows it, but he lingers nonetheless—the training rounds have finished for the day, and weary soldiers are wandering about the vast hall. None spare Lindir a second look, not even the Men; elves far more beautiful than him rise to meet them. He sits on a padded bench about the bustle and cheer and sultry looks, waiting.

And then, just when he’s begun to fear that today won’t be one of the joyous ones, his dream drifts in through the open door. Lindir’s breath catches in his throat, and he rises in excitement, quickly crossing the hall before any other can take his place. Lord Elrond, young and handsome and flushed from the day’s work, catches his eye and smiles. Most of the more complicated armour is stripped away, left in private chambers or the training yard, but Lord Elrond’s attire is still that of a _warrior_ —a metal breastplate and dark breeches, gauntlets and drawn-back hair. He looks especially alluring when his eyes light with such _life_ , his body taut from use. Lindir longs to be the one to release him. 

Lindir reaches him at last, places a gentle kiss against his cheek, and takes his warm hand. It’s more forward than Lindir’s used to, but his fear overrides his propriety—he needs to get this dazzling creature away from his competition. He guides his lord by that hand back through the hall and into one of the smaller side rooms, equipped only with a small bathing space and thick bedding.

The bed is what they beeline for, when the door is closed and shifted to its lock. They bypass the pillows about the floor and reach the mattress, but Elrond stops him there, taking the grip on his hand and twisting it to spin him about—Lindir is swept into Elrond’s arms. It’s all he can do not to swoon when Elrond presses their lips together—the kiss chaste and fierce all at once. Only Lord Elrond could manage such a feat. His air is always so _gentle_ , even after he’s held a sword for hours, but there’s passion in him that always sets Lindir’s skin aflame. 

When the kiss is done, and Lindir is trying hard not to giggle in delight, he spreads his hands across Elrond’s chest and pushes him forward—Elrond obliges, crawling back atop the bed. He reaches the pillows and sprawls down, Lindir quickly following over him and cooing, “How shall I serve you today, my lord?”

He already knows what he wants. He’s straddling Elrond’s hips in no time, fingers tugging at the laces of his breeches. Elrond chuckles fondly, “What a sweet thing you are,” and lifts his hands to cup Lindir’s hips. Lindir rocks happily into them and continues his deft work. “How lucky I am to find you free again. I always half expect to have to fight another off...”

What a silly notion; no one else pays Lindir any mind. He finds his prize and draws it out, parting the thick fabric to release Elrond’s proud cock into the open air—it pulses, hot and hard, in his hands, already risen for him. Lindir savours every little touch and lifts to his knees, parting his own robes—he always wears thin, loose things, just for this occasion. All he must do is spread his skirts around his thighs, and he’s ready, wet and willing and always eager for this particular lord of his. As he positions himself in place, he admits through a lingering blush, “That will never happen, my lord; no one else has ever chosen me.”

Elrond gives Lindir’s hips a little rub and kindly says, “I find that hard to believe.” But Lindir doesn’t mind and loses the train of conversation as he drags the head of Elrond’s cock between his moist lips. 

He pushes down with ease but still cries out at the blunt shock of penetration—he’s quivering wide and slick with want, but his lord is still very sizeable, and he can’t help an automatic clench—he isn’t used to such things. He has no training, little experience. But he _wants this so_. He shivers and adjusts, learns to take it, ducks his head and sinks deeper, takes Elrond farther, moans at the slow slide of Elrond’s glorious cock into his body. It feels fire-hot and unforgivably hard. He’s missed this. 

He always does when it isn’t in him. He used to never care for such things, never pine for anyone, but now he touches himself every night to the thought of _this_ , and the days when this is granted to him are paradise—he lets his body suck at Elrond’s cock and brings his eyes to his lord’s stunning face, drinking in the expression of sheer _lust_.

As Lindir rocks his hips and rises for the first thrust, Elrond groans, “I cannot be the only one to want you...”

Lindir mumbles, “My only one...” and sinks down. It makes him whimper and writhe, but _oh_ , he loves it. He does it again as soon as he’s able, rising and falling, sliding along Elrond’s cock with a swirl of satisfaction. He rides Elrond with ardor, eventually managing to add, “It is you that surprises me, my lord...” He means to explain but has to cut off when he’s filled again, and it thins his mind to nothing. Elrond overwhelms him. He drinks in the growing scent of sex, the faint smell of Elrond’s sweat beneath it, left over from training, and the little sounds as their skin slaps together, all their clothes still too in the way. If Lindir had the wherewithal, he’d claw them off; he longs to feel Elrond’s naked body beneath him. But he can barely form words. “I do not deserve the blessing of such a great lord...”

“I am no great lord,” Elrond snorts. His hands run along Lindir’s hips, pushing back the open robes and tracing his thighs—Lindir spreads them deliberately wider to give Elrond room to play. “I am only Lord Gil-galad’s ward...”

“His heir,” Lindir gasps, his eyes fluttering as he’s filled. He can only speak one sentence at a time. Elrond’s cock feels _enormous_ inside him, rubs all the right places, fills him so well, yet seems to fit perfectly, molded to him. “And a brave warrior of the alliance, a glorious captain, a masterful healer...” So many things. But Lindir doesn’t love him for that. Lindir loves him for _this_ , for the way it feels when they’re together, for the sweetness of Elrond’s face and the love in Elrond’s eyes. Elrond must know that. Lindir’s devotion is obvious, his motivation pure. Elrond lifts a hand to catch some of the brown hair cascading over Lindir’s shoulders, and he gives it a little tug. Lindir bends obediently in two, still completely impaled, to go where his lord guides him.

He’s tugged to Elrond’s mouth, and he shares a lengthy, open kiss, full of tongue and saliva and Elrond’s lips all over his. He squirms in Elrond’s grip and moans reverently against his mouth, “I love you so much, I... I cannot... I must...” But he can’t even say it. He knows he should. It comes to him every time, when Elrond’s stripped him bare like this, when he’s raw and open and wants nothing more than to give Elrond only truth and honesty and innocence, and his heart twists with the thought that he _isn’t that_ , and he chokes and tries to explain, “My lord, I must confess, I—”

But Elrond devours him with another kiss, and it’s too much, and Linder breaks and cries, bucking forward suddenly. His orgasm hits him swift and wild, raging in to sweep him away. He can feel himself squelching around Elrond’s cock and only rides it harder, faster, madly grinding himself through, until Elrond groans against him and explodes inside him. He can feel his lord’s seed welling up and clenches tight to keep it. He rides Elrond until he has nothing left and is slowly puttering out.

Then he stills, spent and satiated, with Elrond still clutching to his body and their faces pressed together. He begrudgingly lifts off, wincing as Elrond’s cock slips out, and lets himself dribble onto his lord’s crotch. He’ll clean them up after; he always does. For now, he collapses atop Elrond’s strong chest, and Elrond reaches around to thread longer fingers through his hair. 

Elrond pets him gently. Lindir is utterly blissful. He wouldn’t trade a moment of this for anything in all the world. 

A few minutes of pleasant afterglow, and Elrond asks quietly, “What were you going to say?”

With the moment gone, nothing. Lindir rests his head on Elrond’s shoulder and diverts his eyes across the room. He _knows_ he still must say it. He should’ve said it a dozen visits ago. But he’s a coward and has kept it to himself. 

Elrond gives his hair a little tug to signal that the question isn’t forgotten, and Lindir bites his bottom lip, chews guiltily on it for a moment, then sucks in a deep breath and professes, “I am sorry.” Elrond is quiet. Lindir repeats, “I am so sorry.”

Elrond is still silent. Patient. Perfect. It’s no wonder that Lindir commits this sin—he likely would again. He tries to draw courage from Elrond’s strength and forces himself to rise, lifting slightly up on his arms with their lower bodies still connected, his legs and robes a mess across Elrond’s breeches. Elrond’s frowning, and Lindir hangs his head. 

Slowly, agonizingly, he admits, “I... must apologize so deeply, my lord. I have... ah... lied to you. I am not... I am not meant to be in these halls.”

He sneaks a quick look at Elrond, who only looks confused. Lindir’s cheeks are a bright pink, he knows. His tongue feels too thick to speak, but he murmurs anyway, “I am... only a minstrel. I had come, that first day, to have a friend of mine look at the strings of my harp. But as I waited for her to finish in one of these rooms, you entered and... and you approached me, and I... I had not the strength to deny you.”

Now he faces his judgment and looks to Elrond’s eyes, where he finds, to his surprise, a look of mirrored guilt. Lindir blinks, doesn’t understand, until Elrond slowly says, “I have taken advantage of you...”

“No!” The thought is horrifying, and not at all accurate; Lindir shakes his head in his insistence. “No, my lord, you did not—it was I who took advantage! I knew I had neither the experience nor training to please you, yet you were so _handsome_ , and you spoke so kindly to me, that I found myself unwilling to correct the misunderstanding. It was deceptive, I know; the fault is mine. B-but it was just that I had such sudden wants, the likes of which I had never felt before—I know I am young, but I am old enough to feel _lust_ , and yet I had never desired another the way I desired you then. And now. When you first took me, I...” He doesn’t even know how to say it. It was like his whole world came together. He found such _meaning_. His songs have never been the same; they’re richer for it. He licks his lips nervously and concludes, “I... I am so sorry, my lord. For lying, for depriving you of the more talented lover you deserved, for... for lusting beyond my station...”

“You have nothing to apologize for, Lindir,” Elrond says just as surely. “It was my mistake. And _my_ lust that first began this.” His mouth opens a moment longer, closes, then slowly adds, “But it has become far more than lust.”

It has. Lindir whispers again: “I love you, Lord Elrond,” and doesn’t dare to hope that Elrond means the same back.

But he thinks he can see it in Elrond’s eyes. Elrond lifts a hand to softly brush some of Lindir’s hair behind his ear. He turns into the touch, nuzzling into Elrond’s palm, and Elrond caresses him so warmly that it’s all he can do not to melt and plead for another round. He would stay only in these rooms if he could, waiting for his lord to bless him.

Elrond quietly admits, “I never cared much for these rooms.” Lindir wilts, but Elrond quickly adds, “Perhaps, if this is not your post and you indeed wished for me especially... you would be agreeable to meet, on the next occasion, in my quarters?” All at once, Lindir is alight, grinning harder than his face can take, leaning down to nose happily at the side of Elrond’s face, his whole body thrumming with _delight_ that he doesn’t even know how to put into words. Elrond murmurs, “We could share each other properly, then, as two lovers would...”

Lindir nods. He’s too pleased to speak. He just drapes himself all around Elrond’s body and clings to it for dear life, soaking in everything that is _Elrond_. There are so many things beyond these walls he wants to do with Elrond, to discuss with Elrond, to share with Elrond. They have much in common. The always linger together for so long afterwards. He still never dared such dreams. 

Then Elrond asks, “If you are a minstrel... will you play for me?”

And Lindir finally climbs off his beloved lord, only long enough to fetch his harp and return to play the sort of art that Elrond inspires in him.


End file.
